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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24155902">Tool</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka'>yeaka</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Halt and Catch Fire</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Ficlet, Light Bondage, PWP, Vaginal Sex</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 20:06:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,369</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24155902</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Donna gets it.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Donna Clark/Trip Kisker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Tool</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s just sex. Or it will be, if she can get through it. If she tells herself it’s meaningless, it’s a little easier. She reminds herself that Gordon’s out getting laid, and she has needs too—she <i>deserves</i> to have them met. She deserves someone better than Gordon, a <i>hell</i> of a lot better than Trip Kisker, but Gordon’s over now and the irritating upstarts that lurks outside her office all the time will have to do. </p><p>At least he agrees to her rules. They go to a hotel room because she won’t sully her bed with this, and she doesn’t even want to know what his place looks like. She didn’t dress up all that much—not any more than the usual form-fitted dress and rouged lips she wears to work. He gets out of his jacket when she tells him to and tries to make a show of stripping out of his striped button-up like he’s some hotshot in a movie. His bravado kills any sensuality the slow reveal of skin might’ve had. Donna suffers it anyway and waits for him to tire himself out. </p><p>Then she pushes him back onto the mattress, shuffles him up into the myriad of pillows, and starts tying his wrists together with his own tie. Straddling his bare chest, she secures his hands to the headboard, and he lets her, because deep down, he must know how much <i>better than him</i> she is. He once told her she was <i>hot for an older woman</i>. She wanted to slap him. Maybe she will now. </p><p>She finishes, and he experimentally tugs at her work, head tilted up and eyes thrown back. She lets him rattle away and climbs lower, back down to his crotch, where his pineapple-patterned boxers are waiting. Just as she’s rolling the elastic waist down the jut of his hips, he suggests, “Hey, do you wanna switch positions? I bet I could really drill down on—”</p><p>She cuts him right off. “Don’t talk.”</p><p>He chirps, “Sure,” like it doesn’t matter. He looks like he’s already having a good time. She hasn’t even taken anything off and doesn’t plan to. But he doesn’t seem to mind her pulling his underwear down enough to free his dick, which is already way too hard for the situation. They haven’t done anything. Certainly haven’t kissed. The room’s a little chilly, the duvet slightly scratchy against her knees. But Trip’s surprisingly chiseled body lies beneath her, pliant and easy, rearing and ready to go. His cock’s not bad. It’s longer than Gordon’s. Shorter than what she used to imagine Hunter’s was like. Lean and ever-so-slightly crooked, cut at the tip. She stops staring at it when his self-satisfied grin grows too wide in her peripherals. </p><p>Then she lifts up on her knees and rolls her underwear down her thighs. He’s bigger than she thought; it might take some work. She runs her hand under her dress, between her own legs, and rubs herself for a moment, looking anywhere but his face, trying to get more excited—maybe she should’ve brought lube. The thought reminds her of the condom in her purse, and she leans over to the nightstand just long enough to fetch it. He makes a noise of protest when he sees it, as though he actually thought he’d get her <i>raw</i>, but that noise dies out when she touches him—when her slender fingers start rolling the latex down his tip. He’s putty in her hands, groaning just from that—he even bucks up into her as she smoothes the end around his base. Touching him, feeling the warmth of his skin, realizing just how badly he <i>wants her</i>, helps get her wet. She’d fantasized about just sitting on his face and making his tongue do the work, but that would only prolong things. She just wants to get off already. </p><p>She settles over him, grabs his dick and positions it against her slit, and then takes one last look. She sighs and thinks <i>at least he’s vaguely pretty.</i> At least he’s good for something. </p><p>Then she slides down, and Trip moans low, arching up and immediately trying to slam in more. She chokes at the sudden movement and shoves her palms flat against his stomach, pushing him down. He grunts and trembles under her fingers. There’s a few dizzying seconds where Donna’s just reorienting herself, and then she’s sinking lower, taking him higher, until she’s sitting comfortably in his lap and squeezing tight around him. It feels so good to be <i>full</i> again. </p><p>Trip breathes, “Holy shit.”</p><p>She warns, “<i>Trip</i>,” and he shuts up, only to cry out again as she starts moving. Ignoring it, she grinds down, pulling back and shoving in, riding him at her own pace. She shifts and sways until she finds the right angle, the perfect spot, and then even she’s making noises despite herself, because he reaches so <i>deep</i>. His arms pull taut, straining at their bonds, body in a crunch as he tries to curl around her. She enjoys the view from under half-lidded lashes and bounces harder. </p><p>She goes faster. She leans down, painted nails digging into his stomach, sliding slowly up to feel his pecs, and Trip moans fantastically, bucking into her and trying to match the rhythm. With his pupils blown so wide and sweat lightly beading across his flushed pink skin, he doesn’t look quite so <i>annoying</i>. She even runs one hand up to his face, skims his cheek, and makes a fist in his curly hair. He growls at that, the lust behind his eyes intensifying. Then he ruins it all by rasping, “Hey, if you—<i>hnn</i>—untie my hands, I could play with your tits...”</p><p>A grunt of disgust leaves Donna’s mouth. She scrunches her eyes closed and tries to pretend he’s someone else entirely, anybody else. Even Joe MacMillan would probably be better at bedroom talk, and she tries to never think of him in bed. </p><p>“Seriously, Don—”</p><p>“I <i>will</i> gag you.”</p><p>Trip laughs. Actually <i>laughs</i>. Except it’s strangled and broken, because he’s breathing so hard, because she’s riding him for dear life and has gone back to dragging angry red trails down his chest. She hopes his thighs are bruised tomorrow. A part of her hopes he thinks of her the next time he jerks off, and the rest of her is pretty sure that’s the grossest thought she’s ever had. </p><p>Then he’s spluttering and coming, suddenly spasming and fucking up into her with everything he has. It throws her own rhythm off but is just what she needs—that brutal, fierce, passionate <i>pounding</i> of a lifetime. Even when he slumps beneath her, Donna keeps that new pace up, slamming into his cock despite his pathetic whines. She goes until her orgasm’s barreling into her, knocking the wind out of her lungs. She rides it like a hurricane. She goes until her hips can’t take it anymore, and her body’s shuddering violently with the aftermath. Then she slouches, the hair tumbling over her shoulders in thick red waves that stick to her flushed skin. </p><p>Trip huskily asks, “Can I talk now?”</p><p>Donna has just enough strength left to roll her eyes. She climbs off his flagging cock and pulls her panties back up before she can drip anywhere, ignoring the condom—it’s his problem now. Settling down beside his head, Donna begrudgingly unties him. </p><p>She doesn’t stay to rub his wrists. He leans up like he wants a kiss, but she’s already climbing back off the mattress and shuffling her skirt down, stumbling back into her shoes. She fishes in her purse for the compact mirror and checks how wrecked she looks—definitely recently fucked, but not <i>too</i> obvious to preclude going out in public. </p><p>Trip stays on the bed and watches her quick recovery. There’s a flicker of palpable disappointment where she thinks he actually expected her to stay, but then he seems to shrug it off and return to being far too pleased. He offers, “So... I’ll call you?”</p><p>Donna returns a thin business smile. “Sure.” Despite feeling surprisingly satisfied, Donna leaves knowing she’s never actually going to return any of Trip Kisker’s desperate calls.</p>
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